Illya
04-17-2006, 11:59 AM
“These are your orders, Lieutenant. I expect them to be carried out to the letter.”
“Yes, comrade Captain.”
Lieutenant Illya Mikhailov saluted, and was dismissed with a wave of the captain's hand. He left the small office, and entered the hall of the Cossack Headquarters. He looked at the banner of Erengrad hanging on the wall, and felt a surge of pride to be able to serve his home town. He left through the main door, and found himself standing on the busy streets of Erengrad, star of the north.
The small headquarters was located on the north side of the Great Revolution Square. Illya mounted up on his trusty steed and rode towards the East Gate. People on the streets watched the young cossack. He was perhaps twenty-three years old, though his silvery hair could be deceiving. There was no denying the youth in his handsome face however. Piercing blue eyes, a sharp aquiline nose, and a high forehead.
Illya rode quickly out of the city, passing through the massive gate. About a mile out of town, he reached the campsite. Some twenty tents were set up, with a large one in the middle. Just beside them, was a crude penning area, with about fifty horses. Each cossack had his own horse, and each had their own way of calling it. To the west, out of the wind, was the latrine area. Not more than shallow trenches dug in the ground, with a shovel at the end of each row. Several cossacks were outside, feeding the horses, others cleaning up, all saluted as Illya rode by. He was after all, the lieutenant.
Shouting in orders, though maintaining his warm smile, Illya told those he passed there was a meeting after the evening meal. It would be in the mess tent. They were told to spread the word, Illya knew they would all be there on time. Despite his young age, Illya had proven to be a capable officer, and had only recently been promoted to the 5th Cossack band, when Boris Jerov had been slain. Most of the cossacks were his age, and he had already been well liked before his promotion. Boris had been old, almost fifty, though he was a great leader. His loss was sorely felt, though none had taken offence at Illya's promotion. Having acted as a sergeant, the young man knew how to lead.
*****
Evening came swiftly, and all fifty cossacks were eating in the mess tent, laughing, talking. The food wasn't great, but it was warm. Soggy potatoes and stringy beef stew. Another of his new responsibilities, Illya had to make sure he kept them men fed, at a low cost. The army wasn't generous on the rationing. Slurping loudly from his own spoon, Illya sat next to Vassili, his closest friend. The blond man was talking to the cossack next to him, telling a rather dirty joke. The man snorted, almost choking on his stew with laughter. Illya grinned, he hadn't disciplined the men for crude language or jokes, not during dinner. Each man knew how to behave on duty.
“So, you have received orders eh?” Vassili turned to him, the pale blue eyes full of youthful anticipation. The 5th had served together for two years, but had seen surprisingly little combat. All the men had been new recruits when the 5th was formed, and had stayed together. They shared the bond of soldiers, men that had bled together, saved each other's lives. Their first major skirmish had been against a group of barbarians from the east, they had lost nine men, though only due to the tactics of the late Captain Boris. The good man had died in the battle, slain by the leader of their enemy. Things had looked ugly, until Illya had taken command and saved the day. Shortly after that he had been promoted to lieutenant, and leader of the 5th.
“Aye, my first assignment.” Illya smiled, he too was excited. He hadn't opened the sealed letter yet, but had resisted the temptation and wanted to share it with his men.
“So tell me about it,” Vassili urged.
“After dinner.” Illya put a large mouthful of the watery stew in his mouth.
“Be like that then.” In a mock huff, Vassili turned away, and continued eating while looking away from Illya. He couldn't prevent the smile slowly spreading on his face however, and a snigger from Illya set both men laughing.
The tables had been cleared away, and benches had been lined up. Illya stood in front of them, his pale blue eyes recognising each man. He pulled the letter from the pocket of his long coat, and held it up.
“Our newest orders, men!” There was some smiling and cheering, then they fell silent again, waiting for him to continue. Illya cut the envelope open, and read its contents. He smiled, and his men sighed in relief.
“We are to ride north-east, to the village of Kochevo. Word has come from Praag Headquarters. There has been a plead for help, though the reason was unsure. It could be anything, from roving wolves to...”
“A Chaos invasion!” a man shouted from the back. Illya shook his head, and many men made the sign of Sigmar to avoid any curse.
“Do not mock the dark powers, Sergei.” He gave the men a grim stare. “That goes for all of you.” He put the letter away, and his features became pleasant again.
“Get a good night's sleep, we ride tomorrow morning. It's almost 500 miles from here, so we'll be travelling for a few days. That is all men.”
*****
The next morning, just before dawn, the men awoke. Quickly and efficiently they took down the tents, and packed them up. Within the hour, they were ready to leave. Illya and Vassili up front, they rode off, in two long lines. Before long they had left the coastal city Erengrad behind, and entered the gloomy pine woods between Erengrad and Praag. They spent the first night there, camped between the trees. Late the second day, they reached Praag, where they were admitted into the city, to stay at the barracks there. It was not a pleasant night, for Praag was not a pleasant city. Having almost fallen to the invasion of Chaos years ago, the damage could still be seen. Illya had been invited to an officers dinner, and had taken Vassili with him as sergeant.
“Now listen, you sit beside me, and remain silent unless spoken to. That is the proper etiquette. Don't worry, the food will be good.”
Vassili, unlike Illya, was not from a wealthy family. His family was poor, living in the small town of Dubna. The military had been the only option for him to get out of the small village. He had become Illya's friend early during their time in the military, though Illya had gone through the officer's school in Erengrad. They had saved each other's lives in battle. Illya was always shamed by his friend's generosity. He willingly gave up his blanket to the man next to him, or half his rations when on campaign, if there was someone needing it more. A good man.
The two men walked over to the main building in the barracks area, and entered. A servant led them to the dining room. It was a large room, with a dancing area next to it. Illya noticed most of the officers had brought their wives, rather than their sergeant. He coughed nervously, hoping Vassili wouldn't mind. There was no problem, however. The man was too busy looking at the good food and finery of the plates and silverware.
The servant showed them to their seat, and Illya sat down. He noted that besides not having brought a wife, he was also the youngest officer at the table. More nerves. The general sitting at the head, a grizzled old veteran raised his glass, and signalled for them to begin their meal. There would be talking afterwards, while they had cigars and vodka. Servants entered, carrying large dishes of soup. It was made of lobster meat and cream, and tasted delicious. Vassili had never tasted anything like it in his life, and Illya felt ashamed of his wealthy upbringing. During the first course, a small speech was held on the campaigning against the orcs, where Kislev Winged Lancers were involved. The two men listened intensely, Winged Lancers were the elite horsemen of Kislev, each cossack aspired to become one.
The second dish was brought in, roast pheasants with creamed potatoes and fresh vegetables. Again there was a speech, this time by an officer from Reikland. He told of the orcish incursion, and how the greenskins were being beaten back, though at great cost. This news from far lands was interesting, and the two men listened carefully to the major telling his tale.
After two more dishes, and a desert, the people stood up, and the tables were moved to smaller groups, where people could talk at their leisure. The women went and sat together, talking and giggling, while the men sipped their vodka and smoked cigars, while discussing important sounding things. At least, it was the impression Illya got. He felt bad for having come, knowing his men were eating some cheap stew once more, while he was here eating food fit for a king. Vassili had taken a seat at a table, and was talking to several women. All of them seemed delighted to meet a real dog trooper, a man from the field. Vassili was enjoying this new-found popularity. Illya smiled, let him enjoy himself. Tomorrow we ride for Kochevo, Sigmar alone knows what we will find there.
“Ah, young lieutenant Mikhailov.”
Illya turned, and was greeted by a rather corpulent man. The golden badges on his shoulders displayed his high rank of General Major. He saluted, and was waved at ease by the man.
“Tush, we're off duty now. You may not know me, I am General Major Turov. I heard news of your recent promotion, my congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” Illya's reply was a little stiff, but he was mildly stunned that a general major knew who he was.
“Let me tell you a little secret,” Turov whispered in a conspiratory tone. He leaned closer to Illya, the smell of vodka and cigar smoke thick on his breath.
“The general staff has its eye on you. Your talent for leading is natural, and we expect great things from you. Pull this assignment off successfully, and you'll be rewarded. Eventually, who knows?” He gestured at his markings. “Perhaps even general major someday eh?” He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound.
“Thank you sir, your trust in me in most gratifying. I hope I won't let you down.”
“I know you won't, lad. Ah, here's my wife.”
A woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair and a very attractive face glided up to them.
“Illya, meet my wife, Catarina.” Illya gracefully took the extended hand, and kissed it gently.
“A pleasure, m'lady.” The woman smiled at him, then turned on her husband.
“Now, Rano, you promised you'd dance with me. And they're playing such fine music!” She gave her husband a pleading look, pouting her lower lip. Clearly a woman used to getting what she wants, Illya thought to himself. He felt a strange feeling of dislike for the aristocracy, even though he was a member of it himself.
“Ah darling, I know I promised, but my leg is acting up again. Perhaps the young lieutenant would like to?”
The woman turned to him, her lovely face all warm and friendly. But her eyes were full of something else. As much as he didn't want to dance, Illya couldn't say no to the general major.
“But of course, sir. Ma'am?” He extended an arm, and Catarina took it graciously. They walked over to the dancefloor, while Turov went back to the other officers, nothing wrong with his leg, Illya noted. A slow song began, and the lady slipped her arm around Illya's waist, letting her hand linger on his behind. He stiffened, and she chuckled softly.
“Don't worry, relax,” she whispered in a purring whisper. Slowly, they danced, her hand remaining where it was, caressing gently.
“You are very silent, Mr. Mikhailov,” she giggled. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What is there to say, ma'am?” He replied stiffly. “I am from Erengrad, and was sent to the army when I became eighteen. Only recently I became lieutenant of the 5th, when our former captain Jerov was killed in battle.”
Her eyes grew bigger. “You were in battle then?”
“Yes ma'am.” The caressing grew stronger, almost massaging. “Tell me, Mr. Mikhailov, do you find me attracting?”
“I beg your pardon ma'am?” Her dark eyes, full of lust looked straight into his pale blue eyes.
“Do you find me attracting?”
“You look very lovely, ma'am.” She sighed, and leaned closer to him. Her perfume smelled like flowers, her hair was soft and glossy.
“How would you like to have the key for my room? I am staying in the city, while my husband is staying here.”
Before Illya could reply, he felt a hand slide gently into his pocket, and drop a key there. The hand lingered slightly longer than necessary, before she withdrew it and looked at him, self confidence oozing.
“Be there at midnight.” She turned and left him on the dancefloor, face red as a tomato.
Pulling his collar nervously, Illya walked over to Vassili, who was still chatting merrily.
“Come, let's go.”
“But...”
“That's an order. Now, Vassili!” His voice was a strained whisper, and his friend rose. Silently, they left the building, and back to the barracks, where most of the men were sleeping.
“What was that all about,” Vassili asked.
“The general major's wife. She gave me the key to her room, wanted me to come by tonight.”
Vassili goggled. “You mean that lady you were dancing with? I though it was strange for her hand to be where it was.”
Illya turned in shock. “You mean you could see that?”
“Of course. The other women were giggling to each other about it, it seems your lady has quite the reputation.”
“She's not my lady. She's the wife of General Major Turov. And should behave accordingly.”
Vassili chuckled. “If you turn her down, you'll be the first to do so. You know what they say, my friend. A woman scorned...”
“I'm not going to her, Vassili. That's final.”
The sergeant nodded, obviously respecting his friend's decision. Silently, they walked into the barracks, and found their bunks. They would leave early next morning.
“Yes, comrade Captain.”
Lieutenant Illya Mikhailov saluted, and was dismissed with a wave of the captain's hand. He left the small office, and entered the hall of the Cossack Headquarters. He looked at the banner of Erengrad hanging on the wall, and felt a surge of pride to be able to serve his home town. He left through the main door, and found himself standing on the busy streets of Erengrad, star of the north.
The small headquarters was located on the north side of the Great Revolution Square. Illya mounted up on his trusty steed and rode towards the East Gate. People on the streets watched the young cossack. He was perhaps twenty-three years old, though his silvery hair could be deceiving. There was no denying the youth in his handsome face however. Piercing blue eyes, a sharp aquiline nose, and a high forehead.
Illya rode quickly out of the city, passing through the massive gate. About a mile out of town, he reached the campsite. Some twenty tents were set up, with a large one in the middle. Just beside them, was a crude penning area, with about fifty horses. Each cossack had his own horse, and each had their own way of calling it. To the west, out of the wind, was the latrine area. Not more than shallow trenches dug in the ground, with a shovel at the end of each row. Several cossacks were outside, feeding the horses, others cleaning up, all saluted as Illya rode by. He was after all, the lieutenant.
Shouting in orders, though maintaining his warm smile, Illya told those he passed there was a meeting after the evening meal. It would be in the mess tent. They were told to spread the word, Illya knew they would all be there on time. Despite his young age, Illya had proven to be a capable officer, and had only recently been promoted to the 5th Cossack band, when Boris Jerov had been slain. Most of the cossacks were his age, and he had already been well liked before his promotion. Boris had been old, almost fifty, though he was a great leader. His loss was sorely felt, though none had taken offence at Illya's promotion. Having acted as a sergeant, the young man knew how to lead.
*****
Evening came swiftly, and all fifty cossacks were eating in the mess tent, laughing, talking. The food wasn't great, but it was warm. Soggy potatoes and stringy beef stew. Another of his new responsibilities, Illya had to make sure he kept them men fed, at a low cost. The army wasn't generous on the rationing. Slurping loudly from his own spoon, Illya sat next to Vassili, his closest friend. The blond man was talking to the cossack next to him, telling a rather dirty joke. The man snorted, almost choking on his stew with laughter. Illya grinned, he hadn't disciplined the men for crude language or jokes, not during dinner. Each man knew how to behave on duty.
“So, you have received orders eh?” Vassili turned to him, the pale blue eyes full of youthful anticipation. The 5th had served together for two years, but had seen surprisingly little combat. All the men had been new recruits when the 5th was formed, and had stayed together. They shared the bond of soldiers, men that had bled together, saved each other's lives. Their first major skirmish had been against a group of barbarians from the east, they had lost nine men, though only due to the tactics of the late Captain Boris. The good man had died in the battle, slain by the leader of their enemy. Things had looked ugly, until Illya had taken command and saved the day. Shortly after that he had been promoted to lieutenant, and leader of the 5th.
“Aye, my first assignment.” Illya smiled, he too was excited. He hadn't opened the sealed letter yet, but had resisted the temptation and wanted to share it with his men.
“So tell me about it,” Vassili urged.
“After dinner.” Illya put a large mouthful of the watery stew in his mouth.
“Be like that then.” In a mock huff, Vassili turned away, and continued eating while looking away from Illya. He couldn't prevent the smile slowly spreading on his face however, and a snigger from Illya set both men laughing.
The tables had been cleared away, and benches had been lined up. Illya stood in front of them, his pale blue eyes recognising each man. He pulled the letter from the pocket of his long coat, and held it up.
“Our newest orders, men!” There was some smiling and cheering, then they fell silent again, waiting for him to continue. Illya cut the envelope open, and read its contents. He smiled, and his men sighed in relief.
“We are to ride north-east, to the village of Kochevo. Word has come from Praag Headquarters. There has been a plead for help, though the reason was unsure. It could be anything, from roving wolves to...”
“A Chaos invasion!” a man shouted from the back. Illya shook his head, and many men made the sign of Sigmar to avoid any curse.
“Do not mock the dark powers, Sergei.” He gave the men a grim stare. “That goes for all of you.” He put the letter away, and his features became pleasant again.
“Get a good night's sleep, we ride tomorrow morning. It's almost 500 miles from here, so we'll be travelling for a few days. That is all men.”
*****
The next morning, just before dawn, the men awoke. Quickly and efficiently they took down the tents, and packed them up. Within the hour, they were ready to leave. Illya and Vassili up front, they rode off, in two long lines. Before long they had left the coastal city Erengrad behind, and entered the gloomy pine woods between Erengrad and Praag. They spent the first night there, camped between the trees. Late the second day, they reached Praag, where they were admitted into the city, to stay at the barracks there. It was not a pleasant night, for Praag was not a pleasant city. Having almost fallen to the invasion of Chaos years ago, the damage could still be seen. Illya had been invited to an officers dinner, and had taken Vassili with him as sergeant.
“Now listen, you sit beside me, and remain silent unless spoken to. That is the proper etiquette. Don't worry, the food will be good.”
Vassili, unlike Illya, was not from a wealthy family. His family was poor, living in the small town of Dubna. The military had been the only option for him to get out of the small village. He had become Illya's friend early during their time in the military, though Illya had gone through the officer's school in Erengrad. They had saved each other's lives in battle. Illya was always shamed by his friend's generosity. He willingly gave up his blanket to the man next to him, or half his rations when on campaign, if there was someone needing it more. A good man.
The two men walked over to the main building in the barracks area, and entered. A servant led them to the dining room. It was a large room, with a dancing area next to it. Illya noticed most of the officers had brought their wives, rather than their sergeant. He coughed nervously, hoping Vassili wouldn't mind. There was no problem, however. The man was too busy looking at the good food and finery of the plates and silverware.
The servant showed them to their seat, and Illya sat down. He noted that besides not having brought a wife, he was also the youngest officer at the table. More nerves. The general sitting at the head, a grizzled old veteran raised his glass, and signalled for them to begin their meal. There would be talking afterwards, while they had cigars and vodka. Servants entered, carrying large dishes of soup. It was made of lobster meat and cream, and tasted delicious. Vassili had never tasted anything like it in his life, and Illya felt ashamed of his wealthy upbringing. During the first course, a small speech was held on the campaigning against the orcs, where Kislev Winged Lancers were involved. The two men listened intensely, Winged Lancers were the elite horsemen of Kislev, each cossack aspired to become one.
The second dish was brought in, roast pheasants with creamed potatoes and fresh vegetables. Again there was a speech, this time by an officer from Reikland. He told of the orcish incursion, and how the greenskins were being beaten back, though at great cost. This news from far lands was interesting, and the two men listened carefully to the major telling his tale.
After two more dishes, and a desert, the people stood up, and the tables were moved to smaller groups, where people could talk at their leisure. The women went and sat together, talking and giggling, while the men sipped their vodka and smoked cigars, while discussing important sounding things. At least, it was the impression Illya got. He felt bad for having come, knowing his men were eating some cheap stew once more, while he was here eating food fit for a king. Vassili had taken a seat at a table, and was talking to several women. All of them seemed delighted to meet a real dog trooper, a man from the field. Vassili was enjoying this new-found popularity. Illya smiled, let him enjoy himself. Tomorrow we ride for Kochevo, Sigmar alone knows what we will find there.
“Ah, young lieutenant Mikhailov.”
Illya turned, and was greeted by a rather corpulent man. The golden badges on his shoulders displayed his high rank of General Major. He saluted, and was waved at ease by the man.
“Tush, we're off duty now. You may not know me, I am General Major Turov. I heard news of your recent promotion, my congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.” Illya's reply was a little stiff, but he was mildly stunned that a general major knew who he was.
“Let me tell you a little secret,” Turov whispered in a conspiratory tone. He leaned closer to Illya, the smell of vodka and cigar smoke thick on his breath.
“The general staff has its eye on you. Your talent for leading is natural, and we expect great things from you. Pull this assignment off successfully, and you'll be rewarded. Eventually, who knows?” He gestured at his markings. “Perhaps even general major someday eh?” He chuckled, a deep rumbling sound.
“Thank you sir, your trust in me in most gratifying. I hope I won't let you down.”
“I know you won't, lad. Ah, here's my wife.”
A woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair and a very attractive face glided up to them.
“Illya, meet my wife, Catarina.” Illya gracefully took the extended hand, and kissed it gently.
“A pleasure, m'lady.” The woman smiled at him, then turned on her husband.
“Now, Rano, you promised you'd dance with me. And they're playing such fine music!” She gave her husband a pleading look, pouting her lower lip. Clearly a woman used to getting what she wants, Illya thought to himself. He felt a strange feeling of dislike for the aristocracy, even though he was a member of it himself.
“Ah darling, I know I promised, but my leg is acting up again. Perhaps the young lieutenant would like to?”
The woman turned to him, her lovely face all warm and friendly. But her eyes were full of something else. As much as he didn't want to dance, Illya couldn't say no to the general major.
“But of course, sir. Ma'am?” He extended an arm, and Catarina took it graciously. They walked over to the dancefloor, while Turov went back to the other officers, nothing wrong with his leg, Illya noted. A slow song began, and the lady slipped her arm around Illya's waist, letting her hand linger on his behind. He stiffened, and she chuckled softly.
“Don't worry, relax,” she whispered in a purring whisper. Slowly, they danced, her hand remaining where it was, caressing gently.
“You are very silent, Mr. Mikhailov,” she giggled. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What is there to say, ma'am?” He replied stiffly. “I am from Erengrad, and was sent to the army when I became eighteen. Only recently I became lieutenant of the 5th, when our former captain Jerov was killed in battle.”
Her eyes grew bigger. “You were in battle then?”
“Yes ma'am.” The caressing grew stronger, almost massaging. “Tell me, Mr. Mikhailov, do you find me attracting?”
“I beg your pardon ma'am?” Her dark eyes, full of lust looked straight into his pale blue eyes.
“Do you find me attracting?”
“You look very lovely, ma'am.” She sighed, and leaned closer to him. Her perfume smelled like flowers, her hair was soft and glossy.
“How would you like to have the key for my room? I am staying in the city, while my husband is staying here.”
Before Illya could reply, he felt a hand slide gently into his pocket, and drop a key there. The hand lingered slightly longer than necessary, before she withdrew it and looked at him, self confidence oozing.
“Be there at midnight.” She turned and left him on the dancefloor, face red as a tomato.
Pulling his collar nervously, Illya walked over to Vassili, who was still chatting merrily.
“Come, let's go.”
“But...”
“That's an order. Now, Vassili!” His voice was a strained whisper, and his friend rose. Silently, they left the building, and back to the barracks, where most of the men were sleeping.
“What was that all about,” Vassili asked.
“The general major's wife. She gave me the key to her room, wanted me to come by tonight.”
Vassili goggled. “You mean that lady you were dancing with? I though it was strange for her hand to be where it was.”
Illya turned in shock. “You mean you could see that?”
“Of course. The other women were giggling to each other about it, it seems your lady has quite the reputation.”
“She's not my lady. She's the wife of General Major Turov. And should behave accordingly.”
Vassili chuckled. “If you turn her down, you'll be the first to do so. You know what they say, my friend. A woman scorned...”
“I'm not going to her, Vassili. That's final.”
The sergeant nodded, obviously respecting his friend's decision. Silently, they walked into the barracks, and found their bunks. They would leave early next morning.